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Among the Fallen Stars First Printing, 2012 © Camine Pappas, All Rights Reserved

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This book is dedicated to my husband Ron who is the love of my life, the truest friend, and the glow that has always illuminated my path. Without him I would never have learned that light is a birthright and chains can be broken!

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About the Book

*** For orphans and sisters Oacie and Raynell Taylor, abuse and loneliness became a way of life as they went from one frightening foster home to the next. Determined but hopelessly forgotten, they are sustained only by cleverness and a reciprocal bond of loyalty. When they are unwittingly caught in the crossfire of a violent and abusive attack, a sadistic Sherriff pursues them in a vengeful and twisted chase that eventually separates them into two worlds where secrets become their only means of survival. Now, after nearly two decades of estrangement, a husband sets out to reconnect these two women, knowing that healing the past is the only means by which he can save his wife, and the sister-in-law he has never known. With one languishing in prison and the other living a life of pretense among the elite of Atlanta, these sisters soon learn that shining is something we all do, even when our light has been buried for a long, long time.

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NOTE TO THE READER: Oacie, Raynell, and Steve share the stage as first person story tellers. Because this is a tale of secrets and isolation, the unique and personal perspective of each character is pivotal to the story itself. Except for the voice of Oacie’s mother, who helps galvanize their collective tragedy by sharing her own story, Among the Fallen Stars is experienced more profoundly by listening to each of the three characters speak in first person, as opposed to hearing a global storyteller chant in omniscience.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use, only, please return to AmongTheFallenStars.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication and/or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. ©Copyright Camine Pappas

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Chapter 1 – Reflection Chapter 2 – Resignation Chapter 3 – Remembering Chapter 4 – Resolve Chapter 5 – Reality Chapter 6 – Radiance Chapter 7 – Revolution Chapter 8 – Renewal Chapter 9 – Reconnection Chapter 10 – Rescue Chapter 11 – Redemption Chapter 12 – Revenge Chapter 13 – Resilience Chapter 14 - Reunion

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By Camine Pappas

Chapter One – Reflection

OACIE It’s only one little star, rather insignificant in its brightness, and certainly nothing more than a piece of reflective, carbon shrapnel from a universe too busy to number every bit of celestial dust. But I follow it, nonetheless. Sometimes its appearance brushes against the top of the metal sill, waving brightly for only a moment and lighting up my stone chamber with purposeful iridescence. Other times it hangs low, and glimmers upward before crossing out of sight, as dawn sounds her pinkish alarm. But it always passes in front of my view, and winks as it ambles by, like it has seen me, and knows me, too. As I lay here in the darkness, from a bunk just wide enough to accommodate my shivering body, I feel the dampness more keenly than ever. And I think back about what defines my life. For quite awhile now, I have forged a future with nothing more than regret acting as both bellow and fire, a relentless locus of sorrow bound up inside me, and this little craggy mote from an otherwise unfamiliar sky salutes to me only because she cannot help it. She was destined to glow, and I think that’s why we’re friends.

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No one looks to anyone for light in here. And if they did, it wouldn’t come from me. Most don’t know how afraid I am, or that regret has hung around my neck like an expectant noose after nearly two decades of incarceration. That’s because I don’t wear my guilt on a wrinkled sleeve. No sniffles or petty sarcasm escaped my pursed and crackling lips when they asked me how I wanted to plea. It wasn’t until later that I snapped, crying with full, generous sobs as they ratcheted down the handcuffs, and washed me with raspy sponges until all the blood was teased so close to the surface that I appeared to have no skin at all. Tonight the darkness is more distinct, which is why the star seems to stand out. Which in turn makes me remember everything clearly, like one recalls the thrust of a hornet’s sting while napping, making detail easy to extrude. For instance, I know that there was a small and silly beetle ascending impulsively up the side of the D.A.’s desk, just at the moment I was sentenced to a life in prison by a snarling jury of my peers, and a derisive judge who nearly spat at me from her perch of absolute justice. I even remember the musty odors of the rickety old bus that carried me to my first jail cell, and the sorrowful dirt of a thousand shoes covering its unkempt floor, both levitating at once into the air and into my nose. I was alone, eighteen, and confused, and I stared only at the shaven head of the driver as he swerved to miss the potholes that dotted the old dirt road. His head was held high, and he seemed to take a special pride in the job of depositing the vermin of society away from the innocent and the certain. Even though I was the only passenger, I remember feeling sick as I smelled the putrid sweetness of his after shave, noting that the beads of perspiration that dotted the folded nape of his freckled neck looked like diamonds scattered across the edge of a sandy shore; their perfect roundness making him appear almost inanimate. I even thought about leaping to his side, and clasping his shiny head in desperation while I begged him to let me flee into the trees before it was too late. But I could no more move than fly.

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As we finally came to a stop in front of the gates, I listened to the muffled groans of the gravel driveway shifting and popping under the weight of the groaning tires, and it was then I knew that each dew covered stone beneath us was already numb to the passage of time and punishment, and that the relentless pendulum of maturity had started swinging in reverse. I also knew that whatever was gentle in me, whatever passions resided within – even the ones that moved me to hope, laugh or love – might eventually thin out, grow invisible and eventually disappear. But I didn’t let that happen. And I feel compelled to comfort you like the star has done for me. Listen closely now, as I tell you that just because I am in chains does not mean I’m not free. I am, even if I do not roam about like you. That belief comes from my gut, where all truth resides. It is a place in me that was set in stone at birth, and glows with authenticity. No matter what happens around me – even if I am cloaked in the hopeless and palpable chill of darkness – all of my thoughts can still spring forth from that one, single spot. For me, my determinant nature started when I was very young, my knowledge forming from consequence instead of lecture. In fact some would say I was destined to end up here, locked away without a key, noting that by losing my parents at such a young age, no compass could ever compensate for my rebellious tendencies. “She done been possessed by wild notions, that girl!” came the cry from those with folded brows and worn Bibles. And maybe they were right. Those that could have guided me beyond the basic truths of good and evil died eons ago, taken up into the stars by uninvited angels. I knew they still glowed from somewhere but I couldn’t see their light. Their incandescence, although evident in every choice I made, was not bright enough to teach, only soothe. And now, their benevolent glow only flickers in my memory, illuminating the shifts of my fortune with a small, imperceptible light.

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Here’s the truth of it. In the darkness, you make mistakes. And they litter my path like so many dead cicadas after the heat of summer finally quiets their shrieking calls of copulation. I am not one to wallow in the unfathomable. I have a lot of life left in me. I am, in comparison, better off than those who have no point of reference. In contrast to much of the hardness that surrounds me, the first part of my childhood was good; very good. It hummed with a kind of domestic harmony in my Southern home town of Dillon, unfolding like rose petals softly stretching to catch the sunlight; sharing sweetness with an absolute confidence that spring will always come. I spend a lot of my time thinking back to what home used to be like before the chains and before all the mistakes, and the memories flow out me thick and textured. They fall together quickly like straws spilling out on the floor, conduits for new interpretations of disappointment, remade and retold until the darkness fades into myth and for a time, I believe there are no shackles at all. For instance, I have even heard that my house still stands strong and vertical, even though it is now alone on a block that used to vibrate with laughter and the sound of bicycles, ice cream trucks and lawn mowers. It was the kind of place where women sat on front porches smoking and laughing as they waited for their husbands to return from work like a hoard of denim soldiers marching to a casserole scented homing signal, and warm chocolate pie smells drifted through the air and gathered in the alleys like friends. The aromas and golden light called to me and I used to walk along the back of each house and peer into all the kitchens, imagining I was the guest at the table asking for seconds and thirds, hoping the paper napkin tucked into my pocket would return home with extra biscuits for Mama and sugar cookies for me. Things really were glorious for awhile and I felt that the world was there just for me. I used to sit in our backyard swing and make up whole stories about the

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people that walked by. I’d pay attention to how they moved, or what they were carrying and then I’d begin. Sometimes the stories ended happily. Sometimes they didn’t. The truth is you have to have some sadness or the story isn’t worth hearing. It was a town caught in time, really because although technology was beginning to creep into our private lives, the barber shop was still the center of social news and the town square bustled with art shows and bake sales while lovers intertwined on old blankets eaten through by moths breeding among the woolen stitches. Parades were long, bands were loud, and ice cream cones were twirled up high; their colors blending like the vortex of neon paint on an old tie-died shirt. In the summer we forgot about everything burdensome, and the moon always seemed bigger, like it had swallowed a whole truckload of fireflies and needed to expel the glowing powder into one, brilliant sneeze. It covered us all in a kind of magical dust, protecting us from all the sorrowful things we could never have known were so very, very close, pretending there were no dreams to be undone. At night we listened to frogs croaking their anthems of courtship in the teeming pools of brown water, and by autumn, the trees would burn with color, casting the jewels of nature at our feet. Even the few inches of white, magical snow, sprinkled gently on a hill that sloped gradually down to the edge of an aging town, were enough for an old inner tube to carry us away into fantasy. Will all of this joy and simplicity, there wasn’t one thing that prophesied the doom in store for us. We went about as though paradise was free, and perpetual, and deeded to us forever. We never thought about politics, or scandal, and my parents voted their conscience without the benefit of cable or the Internet. If we had been connected, the only thing we could have done is be more afraid. And that’s no way to live. Sown from the seeds of greed and progress, the inevitable soon enveloped us in her cloak of economic lies. We never understood that the looms that fell silent in

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our community were only transported to another continent, or that only the ears that heard their music changed. In actuality their spindles, vibrating with the sound of healthy commerce, were now staining foreign balance sheets with the black ink of progress. It didn’t matter that we were patriots; America was now only a word, and we were barely a mark on an empty page. After the mill closed, there were no relatives or neighbors. No one stayed behind to fight. Only those who have been mashed into a gnarled figure of hunger understand how hopeless it was. Quiet and silent like a grave, what remained behind was just emptiness, and feeding on Dillon’s warm carcass like a parasite the emptiness consumed everything, screaming through the cracks in crumpled buildings, and muttering with the guttural language of poverty. But still, I do cling to the memories of my carefree days, even though in doing so I am dipped in melancholy. And why not, isn’t every home significant? Doesn’t it define our earliest habits and memories? Doesn’t it shape everything we are? Aside from the obvious disrepair, you may not notice the curtains that still hang in the upstairs window, or that the remnants of once hearty rose bushes now crushed under the weight of weeds and drought. You may even overlook the headless Barbie sticking out of one of the cracks in the sidewalk, or the rusted clothesline standing askew in a yard full sorrow. Everything that meant something is now covered up by time, kudzu and decay. I wasn’t the first to fall in love with our house, she boasts a history that reaches back long before we arrived. As each family outgrew or out-loved her, they always left behind a few scraps of paper, or badly placed nail holes in their haste to move on. I like leaving things behind as well, so I carved my name, Oacie Taylor, into the baseboard one night when I couldn’t sleep, becoming part of all that came before, and all that would be. Oacie is a nickname of course. It’s short for Omara Cecile Taylor, which I never liked. The Cecile is okay since it was my Mama’s name. However, I think you will agree that Omara is an awful name. It was my second grade teacher, Miss Grismore, the first to appreciate my story telling prowess and the best audience I

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ever had, who asked me to make up a nick-name for myself even after seeing the note from Papa kindly requesting I be known by my entire, Christian name. She understood what a bad name can do for you, so together we found one that suited me, and I never had to bother with that long name again. Oacie it was. It some ways it suits me. I’m gangly by most standards, and pretty by others as beauty still clings to my face and eyes. My hair, which is completely devoid of any natural curl, is the color of melting chocolate. My arms curve into my body when I walk, arching back and forth like a runway model’s pale limbs; but that’s just because my hips are so narrow. In truth, walking for me is more up and down than back and forth so swinging my arms completes the circle. My eyes, easily my best feature are set deeply, a pleasing distance from one another, and green as grass with dots of brownish gold around the edges. They see a world that hasn’t changed much over the last 18 years, squinting hard through the tenuous delivery of sensory data that I extract from the limited information that surrounds me. I suppose if I had to define a trait that is most responsible for my circumstances, it would be my mouth. It goes off without warning, especially when I hear people talk stupid. You stick around and listen long enough, that’s just about everyone you meet. I wish I had said more though on the night that everything changed from bad to worse and from fear to revenge. It was the night we saw too much, and stayed too long, and didn’t run far enough away from a scene we should never have been a part of; a moment that set my fate in motion and made my sister a stranger to me, forever. She was only 11, I was almost 15, and we were blood stained, and aching with fear. She was running behind me, crying and screaming even when I stopped long enough for her to catch up to me, telling her to grab my torn pocket and hold on until I could get us to safety. I don’t know that her legs were on the ground I was running so fast. But by the time we reached the end of the block

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we only stopped long enough to see the police car roll into the driveway and the officers emerge with loaded guns. We knew that we had left horror behind us, and that much of it was our fault. It is all mixed up now in the fog of regret and I haven’t breached the truth of it with her since that brutal day. It’s never going to be better if we don’t talk about it. It’s so secret that all memories have now become a wall between us. A wall so high she has forgotten our closeness, and our pact to always fight for each other. She may have even forgotten that night, and rightly so. It was a catalyst of revenge, a moving target of misunderstanding and survival, and a true testament to a moment gone wrong. And when the time came, I made sure she got as far away as possible. I was no good to her. She deserved more. This way I would never have to worry about her seeing something in my eyes that brought all the details back to torture her once again. We should never have gotten away, really. It was only luck that opened a portal to a temporary freedom. Actually, you’d be surprised how far we got that night, slipping away as we did after such violence. Maybe the caseworker assigned to retrieve us had an appointment to get her brows waxed and finding two kids who haven’t bathed in two weeks doesn’t sit well when you’d rather smell lavender and cedar. It could be after years of chasing our kind it becomes obvious that all we really want is a head start, and if we can escape without stealing a meal, frightening an old woman or setting off any alarms, they all figure its good riddance. Raynell has always been a bit fragile, and it was up to me to protect her. She has long, blond hair and a cowlick that would stop a train. It looks like a crop circle and bounces into place with violence if disturbed. I remember Papa complaining that there was no way to get her hair in a ponytail without using a crowbar and some serious hair gel. He said her upward-pointing curls were God’s way of reminding the world she was born special, and when he first told her that, she looked straight up to see if there was anyone looking down that might nod in approval. I was afraid to look up in case it was true.

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She’s the beauty, Ray is, and her name is a handful like mine: Raynell Jeneva Taylor Messner to be exact. Her skin is pale and clear, her lips wide, taking up half her face. But it fits her and after you realize you can’t stop staring because of that generous, curving mouth, you see a loveliness that is most certainly doomed for sorrow. Her eyes are green like mine, and she can close those gorgeous eyes and sleep like I was never able to. Her ability to make things disappear is what I am most jealous of. Even over the full figure she has developed and the brown mole on her cheek that makes everyone look twice. She can move between lucidity and madness at the drop of a hat, sometimes mesmerizing those around her with keen observations like she was reading from a ‘Junior Genius’ handbook. Then at other times appearing blank and bereft. If she has continued this bi-polar roller coaster, she must be driving everyone around her crazy. I could always see it coming and therefore prepare for the two people she had divided herself into, but then sisters live in their own world designed specifically for assumptions. No one ever explains to you that mind reading is only a trick. The fact is I haven’t seen her in more than a decade and it’s been even longer since we talked as friends. Most of her correspondence has consisted of short, impersonal letters, written in an impeccable, cursive hand with paragraph after paragraph of updates about new blenders, lavish neighborhood parties, the percentage of gold in her latest jewelry acquisition, and the silk pillows in her sun room. There’s always a photo included in the linen folds of the stationary, but it’s usually oriented from a distance and excludes any kind of detail that would make it possible to see who she has become. There are a few clues that she has slipped permanently into a kind of debutanteinduced oblivion, proving further that she chooses not to remember our past. For instance, she is always writing to me as though I was the editor of Vogue, not her incarcerated sister, hoping I will be impressed with her materialistic savvy. She will ask if I’ve seen the new furniture line in Exquisite Home magazine, or if I swoon over any the celebrities that she follows in earnest. I suppose elegance

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has always been a part of her because when we were small, she used to ramble on about the ladies we watched in the beauty salon, legs dangling into foot baths and arms extended like ballerinas in the spotlight. She’d say that someday she would paint her nails all different colors and keep them long and nicely groomed. We’d both have “things,” she used to say, and I would roll my eyes of course because preening seemed like such a huge waste of time. What I never considered is these rituals were actually her way of coping with a life encased in hesitation. Ray is my dear little sister and I love her. When she came along, I was only four, prepared and anxious to be a big sister like nobody’s business. I used to stroke her yellow hair for hours as she lay asleep in her crib. I would watch her as she sucked on her purple pacifier, listening to the air sift through her nose and echo into her chest, and after a momentary hesitation, flutter out through a smile. Mama said I was going to go blind looking at her so closely, but I couldn’t help it. She smelled good, like milk, and spit and earth. It was glorious, this having a sister. It was like finally finding your lost sock. You always knew there were supposed to be two. As we grew up it was clear that we would always understand each other. No matter what the distance, there would be a special bond that would connect the emptiness caused by life. And the sadness started early. By the time I was 13 we had already been in 5 foster homes. Long gone were the teachers with hearts, and pencils with your name on them. Most days were spent sneaking food from the pantry because feeding us was optional, and wiping down our own sheets to remove the bugs before we went to sleep was a daily ritual. When we were out, Raynell and I spent most of our time climbing trees and staring into windows, always peering in to find someone who looked like our mother. We always said she had to be wearing an apron with polka dots, and sporting a hair ribbon or two. She would also have to be wearing pearls, be covered in flour, constantly pulling her hand up to her brow as she fought an

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unruly cowlick. Once we thought we’d actually found her and it made us stop the game for fear it was true. This is impossible of course, since she died when Ray was 4 and I was 8, but I swear, it had to be her. I didn’t really tell you about my mom because it’s not part of what made our lives so bad, she was wonderful and we loved her. In fact everyone loved her. I just don’t like to talk about it because losing her is certainly what made the bad start. Truth is; she was needed in heaven. That’s clearly the case. We were left behind to take care of Papa for awhile, and the house, the house, because it was the only place she touched us and we touched her. And those curtains I told you about that are still hanging in the window? Mama and I picked them out together, putting them up not long before Ray was born. It was the perfect room of a soon to be big sister and we did it up right. I knew it as soon as I saw the pattern on the curtains that they were meant for me because they had stars on them, and moons and cows leaping like dancers on a stage. The cow’s mouths were upturned, and they wore lipstick and big earrings and bracelets around their hooves. Even the moons had faces, and everyone seemed to be dancing to a trumpet and drum-march, while fireworks erupted in the sky. Of course we made sure the bedspread matched the curtains, and the striped wallpaper was light green with red stars running up and down from floor to ceiling. The whole ensemble in fact made my bedroom enchanting. I counted those stars on the wallpaper to help me sleep and to take away the sense of panic I always had, especially when the cancer started to close in and mother was too tired to sing. She’s still there, you know, inside a small opening in the wall behind my chest of drawers. It is there I keep a picture of her tucked into a small yellow tin, a prize from a Cracker Jack box and just the right size for storing treasures. Along with the photo there is a letter from her written three days before she died, and the bracelet she wore in the hospital when I was born. The picture is still there to

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this day because when we moved out of that house, I had to leave it behind. Otherwise, the cows on the curtains might stop singing and then the house would always be sad and I couldn’t handle that. I kissed her picture hard when I walked out the last time and hoped she would know where to find me wherever I went. She was among the stars that stayed up high, and lit up heaven. I have remained down below, grasping the cold firmament, and staying out of reach of everything comforting but her memory. I had her face in my head, and that was enough. She belonged in my room forever. Cecile Victoria Ermengarde Taylor’s spirit was too important to ever move away from her own castle. It was different with Ray; she took everything from her room when we moved. She grabbed her magic glitter pens, her set of Cinderella underwear, her Tinkerbelle wings, and even the cracked silver comb we had found behind a supermarket during one of our many stealth missions for candy. She took all of her hair ribbons, and two of her secret keys that came with the magic book Papa bought her on her last birthday. The day we left, she had done her own hair and placed a big, red clip right over her swirling, curling part because she knew it was a better way to wave to God, and our parents, as we both left the house and the memories behind. When I think about it I realize we both used to be someone else, glowing with the light of protection and promise. The numbers in my life were about seasons, and the heartbeats that marked the depth of the love I had for family. Now the numbers in my life are across my left breast, or neatly tucked into square boxes on a worn clip board. And if the bars of my cell were the vertical columns of a timeless abacus, they would show the largest number of all to be the days since I have seen Ray. Could it be too much to hope that she will come back; returning to hear our whole story, and maybe make peace with it? If no one has helped her remember, who better than a sister to soothe the wounds of mortality? But I must believe

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she will come or the darkness will surely close in on me. And if she does, I will tell her everything. I will tell it all.

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RAYNELL

Everything you think or know about me is wrong. Just because I can carry on a conversation with the magnetic grace exuded by debutants and heads of state, my classiness has only emerged from years as a consummate pretender. If we were having a casual chat, your immediate impressions of me would be described with words like, ‘confident, well bred, and forward thinking.’ But the truth is I’m shocked every morning by the woman who stares back at me in the mirror. And she’s pretty disappointed in me, too. It’s not your fault for giving me more credit than I deserve; I do my best to fool everyone with brilliant acts of diversion. I pull my hands through my air just as the breeze lifts it into coy, little ringlets, just to take your mind off the fact that what I say isn’t all that insightful. I feign eyelash trauma to avoid questions that I simply cannot answer. And worst of all, I tell my husband he’s being unreasonable when his logic is sharp, honest and real. As ineffable proof of my deep fear of rejection I find that celebrating my materialism is the best bait of all. You cannot imagine how hard I’ve worked to create an arsenal of couture. I own a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes even before the dye cures on the leather. Tiffany necklaces find their way into my jewelry armoire almost as often as I buy milk. And if they had a French Designer category on Jeopardy, I would clean up. All of them are costumes, really, carefully chosen and coordinated to act as a convincing façade; a repertoire of loneliness made of cotton and silk. If one were to look closely, they would discover I’m nothing more than white trash with a charge card. It is the perfect way to keep the incessant questions of reflection out of my mind and my life. Harsh, you say? Not everyone is so forgiving. Some attribute my retail therapy to gross overcompensation, telling me it is the result of the supreme indulgences brought on by unearned wealth. But I’m not some loony wandering around in a

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bathrobe wearing stilettos and carrying a cigarette holder. I’m a little nervous and bossy perhaps and no one here knows the story of my past, so naturally I appear to function with ease. However, lately, everyone has started to look horrified when I buy something, staring at me like I do cocaine, or share military secrets, offering me advice before I’ve even ordered my tea. “You’ve got to get a hold of yourself, Raynell!” They remind me, as though I woke up one day on the wrong side of the bed and decided to wig out. Change, you say? Change is not something you do, it’s something you wake up and find that you’ve done. I cannot figure out what happens in the middle. It’s all been erased away. So I’ve read the books. I understand how to break a habit. Just repeat something 30 or 40 times and it becomes rote. But since I don’t want anyone else to discover I’m broken, self talk in front of a small lipstick mirror just isn’t cutting it. Hey’ I’d love it if I could begin living a life where panic isn’t second nature. It would be wonderful to wake up and not be frozen with fear. But being confused seems easier than having clarity, so on and on I go. ‘Well, so if it’s not your present circumstances that have screwed you up, something really horrible must have happened when you were young?’ you muse. And of course you would be right. I should talk about it someday but I don’t want to. Just when I get close to explaining it, even to myself, it begins to hurt too much to continue. I’ve decided that the past is so much easier to carry if it’s compressed into folded notes and forgettable stories, tucked away into a box labeled, “awful” and buried deep inside a drawer with no handles. You know how that goes, keeping secrets from others, that is. I must wear a red sign on my head or something, because my hidden trunk of secrets is routinely vandalized, and bits of me creep out into the open to cause widespread panic. Once the right button is pushed, all the pain and fear come rising up, and I’m caught in the crosshairs of logic.

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Take last night for example when, after circling into attack mode, my foes worked me into a frenzy of tears and shouting; which of course turned into an argument, which eventually sent me into the outer limits of self control. And now in the predawn hours I lay piled under the custom covered pillows of my upholstered prison cell called the sofa, ruining everything with my sweat and slobber, embarrassed and ashamed. I know I have to stop doing this. I keep telling myself that all the time. But there’s really no room inside my head for advice anymore. I’m almost to the point where nothing else will fit. Yes, my argument was with my husband again. Always crafting another imaginative strategy to extract my secrets, his irritating correctness just pushes me deeper into denial. When I sidestep a question he glares at me with amazement. Maybe he sees that the answers come to me swiftly, and adorned with all the emanations of intelligence. Perhaps the thin veil of my madness hasn’t really worked all these years. Sure, I could answer him and dazzle him, relentlessly smashing his pointed arguments against the wall. I win the Pulitzer every day in my head, so it’s no surprise he cannot believe I have chosen instead to talk like an idiot – and maybe I am. I haven’t tried to talk back for so long the words might not ever come. But it’s a strategy. And, since neither of us is willing to halt the barrage of cruel accusations, our battles always move directly over the precipice of marital disaster. It began slowly as most fires do. The kindling, a snide comment whispered quietly behind the 300 thread count folds of Steve’s dinner napkin; that small look of disgust quickly crossing his face when the salmon turned out to be overdone. Even though the plates were clearly shiny and new, and all three courses were perfectly color coordinated, he still leered at me. As it escalated, the tension surrounding my latest shopping extravaganza came up, and before long it was a full blown conflagration. You need to know my side of the story, though. I was just regaling my day, cataloging in detail the perfect gloves I bought for our neighbor Pat and why I

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just couldn’t bear to leave any of them behind to be snatched up by another Prada-toting socialite, when he exploded. He started to make sarcastic remarks about the kitchen pantry, and the boxes in the den, and the packages all over the garage. I couldn’t stand to hear him whine anymore, so I just yelled back. I think I probably banged my fists on the table, and I’m pretty sure there’s wine all over the wallpaper, too. Damn. If I could have left it alone and stayed quiet like I always do, walking back to the kitchen to rinse the food and the frustration down the disposal, then everything would still be fine. If you had been there, you would understand. How could I stay composed when everyone was hounding me? They were mean, loud and snarling. I know it sounds weird to define my family as malevolent but they are! Clever, calculating and premeditated in their delivery, only their horns are missing. I will define their sorcery by telling you first about my daughter, Nell, who, by the way is the cruelest. Being eleven and smart just makes her better at it. She bullies me with taunts about how I forget everything, or babble on unnecessarily. She even hates that she’s named after me, as though I did it to punish her. “Raynell is my name and I want to pass it on!” I screamed in the delivery room thinking it would bond her to me in kind. They say a lot of women scream in the delivery room so no one argued with me. But, I wish I’d known that she would arrive from a different place altogether, and our first meeting, only moments after her birth, would be more like a stand-off than an introduction. I had dreamed of her with blond hair, and a swirling cowlick like mine, her allegiance unwavering and strong, so I wouldn’t have to convince her to respect me. The first part was true, she resembles me in almost every way, but she avoids me like a pit of snakes, and I never realized that it would take a leap of faith on my part to feed and protect her. The first time she threw up on me I thought I would be sick. But she just stared at me like I didn’t know what I was doing. She still looks at me that same way.

- 23 -

Garner, my handsome, nine year old son, channels a cruelty that is more subtle and silent than his sister’s, even though on occasion he takes my side. Maybe I am being too harsh on him because at least he will say I look pretty even when my eyes are swollen and red. Bless him for that. It’s why I buy more presents for him than anyone else, but I certainly would prefer a ‘thank-you’ now and then. His tenth birthday is next month and he’s already starting to exhibit the gangly appearance young boys are saddled with as testosterone begins its early transformative powers. But his dark hair is beautiful and long, and his hands are smooth and sure. I’m not ready for him to grow up, so his being awkward endears me to him. He’s smart, too, with a wide smile, and a slightly pigeontoed walk which I think he got from Papa, but Steve said it’s because I didn’t let him walk enough when he was a toddler. When I was pregnant with him, I used to rub my belly and talk about the mysteries of consciousness, give him long lists of books he had to read, and musing about what kind of girl he would marry. He would kick in approval and cut off my breath, and I took that as an omen that his birth would come hard, and I was right. Even when his diaper was full of that awful yellow stuff that scares the hell out of you the first time you see it, I pretended to understand all the rituals that heralded the arrival of another baby in my home. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they even need a mother. If a bus wiped out both Steve and I tomorrow, they would survive and thrive, looked after by their own sense of entitlement and fiscal opportunity. Sure we’re the parents, but they’re being raised by a G4 connection and ninety nine cent ring tones. Who are we to intervene? *** There’s that sound again. The paper boy has just whacked our front door with a black and white missile he calls the paper. It brings me back to hear the creaking of the house as the hot sun awakens her from a very long night. It must be 5 a.m.

- 24 -

because right on cue, Steve’s alarm clock starts vibrating on the nightstand in our bedroom, poised directly above where I lay disheveled and spent. He will rise dutifully, shower and make the bed, choose a shirt and slacks from his impeccable wardrobe, and dash out the back door to suture up another injured animal, all the while happy to be curing something, and grateful he can leave me and my misery behind. I will of course hide under the cushions to avoid his gaze and wonder, ‘If I grew fur and had a cloven hoof, would he be more understanding?’ But he’s not the only one grateful to be dashing away. Also joining the morning parade of effectuals will be Nell, furious that I don’t have her cupcakes waiting by the door. She will toss her head around, lean over to pull up her socks, and then straighten up to sigh at me; a gesture many times more painful than if she had wrestled me to the ground, and hit me over the head. I try to get up and my whole right side starts to tingle. I see the reason I can’t feel my leg is I have one foot tucked under my hips, so oddly it looks like it doesn’t belong. I contemplate the incessant buzzing going on in my skin and marvel at the numbness because it’s such a welcome sensation. When I do move to a sitting position the long scratch on my ankle comes into view. Hmm. That must have happened when I kicked the wall. That means I won’t be able to wear the new skirt I bought for my neighbor’s party this afternoon, a gathering which will be populated by fellow thespians in our show of prosperity and pretense. I know, I know. I can tell you’re considering joining the ranks of the ‘really’ concerned. Sure, I do buy a lot of things, but it honestly helps me feel better. When I slip that iridescent plastic through the magnetic slot releasing irresistible treasures into my control, there is no sensation that matches its rapture. The machine dings, displays the words, “good swipe!” and soon I am toting embossed and patterned packages out to the parking lot, tissue paper blooming from the tops of the colored shopping bags like springtime azaleas, and filling the backseat of my car with badges of my good taste.

- 25 -

It’s invigorating, this rush of adrenalin that courses through me when I unwrap a new acquisition. I spread these trinkets throughout our home to remind my cynical and increasingly passionless family that I can acquire what I want, without having to ask their permission. I have power beyond the spoken word, and I use it. For a few hours at least no one wonders why I won’t talk, and why I won’t listen. To me it is proof that I have risen above the filth and fear that haunted me when Oacie, my sister and I were lost, hungry, and forgotten; because after all, that is where all the trouble started. There was a time in the middle, after the poverty and before the madness when I thought everything would be perfect. It was when I first met Steve, and I felt safe and protected in a way I didn’t think possible for someone like me. Our meeting happened quickly, on an afternoon when the chill in the air makes you grab for your coat, not realizing that your world is about to change with the next breeze. I was a very mature 18, having been just hired as a clerk in a boutique in Charleston, when a small altercation out in front of the store caught Steve’s attention. I had just finished completing a purchase for a snobby customer carrying a marble headed cane and a dangling watch fob, who, after exiting, stared into his bag and began a decisive march back my way. Not wanting a scene to ensure, I decided to meet him at the entrance to make sure everything was alright. “Sir, is there anything wrong?” I asked demurely. “Wrong? Are you kidding?” He yelled out at the top of his lungs. Through his screaming explanation I found out I had apparently dragged his purchase over an ink pen while removing a security tab and it was, as he stated, ruined. In spite of his Victorian appearance he then became hell bent on reducing me to trash and immediately assumed I was genetically prone to sloppiness. Leering at me like I had been raised by wolves, he asked with a sneer, “What on earth are you (the “you” emphasized so I’d know he wasn’t talking about anyone else), doing in a

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boutique of this caliber, when it’s clear you’re better suited for toilet cleaning and punching lottery tickets?” It was loud enough for anyone within fifty feet to hear, a radius which Steve had wandered into only seconds before, and he sprang into action. He ran across the street in a crouched posture that made him appear armed, and the customer stepped back a bit. Steve wasn’t that scary, though, just determined. With a thatch of red hair that caught the sun like copper, a slender build, and eyes that looked more like those you’d see on a boy rather than a man, it was hard to figure out where he carried his weapon. But verbally he knew how to cut to the quick, and as I listened to him strip my assailant of any recourse, all I could think about was, ‘This is the man I will marry. We will spend the rest of our lives together, and we will always be in love.’ “Are you okay?” He asked quickly, his coat blowing awkwardly in the wind “I’m sorry; I hope you don’t mind that I intervened. I don’t always know when to stay out of things, but you, you looked so hurt.” He was looking at me from head to toe, taking in the whole of me like he was seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time, and I liked how that felt. “Some people have no idea how to make friends, do they?” I mused, brushing my face to get rid of the shine and pushing my yellow hair back into place. As I said it, he laughed nervously, looking up only once to see if I was being sarcastic or truly crazy. Steve returned, “I’m glad he hasn’t the temerity to find out. If he had, I might never had been tempted to approach, and then I wouldn’t have a chance with someone like you.” It was an unguarded comment. Refreshingly honest, and it would have been embarrassing if I were one of those fragile ninnies who gasped every time a doily slipped out of place.

- 27 -

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be so forward. My name is Steve. Steve Messner. I am very pleased to meet you.” “Likewise, and I appreciate your chivalry.” I purred. “I have to say, it shook me up. I keep trying to convince myself I fit here, but the truth is no one in that boutique has anything interesting to say.” Wait, perhaps I shouldn’t be so candid in return. If I was going to snag this guy, best I play the part. So I sighed heavily and coaxed a small, burning tear into my eyes, just to see how vulnerability played into the moment, continuing with a voice I hoped rang with the tone he craved. “Anyway, thank you. I’m still shaking a bit but I will be alright. I’m sure you were on your way somewhere important, and I’m just getting in your way.” It must have been the right reaction, because he cleared his throat, straightened his sweater and asked, “Do you need some time to gather yourself? Why don’t we take a walk by the water?” I nodded weakly to seal the believability of the façade, ran back into the store for my purse, and we immediately wandered off down the street, like two dancers on stage, feeling a breeze hit us squarely as we turned to face the ocean that swallowed us with a sting of salty air. He looked at me intently, cocking his head to one side, reaching down with a clammy hand to clasp mine, and in spite of the wind we both realized we were as well suited as any two people could be. He always said what he was thinking, and I was always thinking about what not to say. Our meeting happened within hours of Steve arriving in town for a vacation, there to clear his head after finishing his Veterinary School exams in Georgia. He was looking forward to a little cold beer and a couple of nights by the sea. Meeting me was, in his words, “A wonderful surprise.”

- 28 -

“It’s all so gorgeous here, isn’t it?” I said, after pointing out some of the most beautiful sections of the city, and licking my lips to bring out their color. “You’ll fall in love with Charleston, and everything in it.” “I think you’re right, Raynell. I think you’re absolutely right.” And that was how it began. We started to see each other every day, spending hours along the cobblestone streets, drinking mint juleps and kissing like school children. I never returned to the dress shop, or the any other establishment of employment. There was no need to. I belonged with Steve. As we starting sharing details of our past, I strategically skipped all the ugly parts. Suffice it to say I convinced him that I was an appropriate choice for any man seeking to climb the southern ladder of success, without having to lull him into boredom with all the details that would have alarmed any man. My collective résumé fit the bill, and it wasn’t long before we exchanged “I love you’s” and a “yes, I will.” And soon, an “I do.” I was now Mrs. Steve Messner. We honeymooned in the Caribbean, and within 6 months we were living in Atlanta. As soon as we moved into our home I couldn’t wait to decorate and make it my own. There were so many amazing things that came so fast, I just jumped in head first without ever imagining I would have to negotiate my demons along the way. Good thing I kept them to myself, too, because Steve had been invited by a friend to join a very successful practice, so money began to flow like water. Born into a New England family with no childhood drama and plenty of status and wealth, Steve was poised to acquire all the nice things we desired. I couldn’t have designed it any better if I had won the boyfriend lottery twice. ***

- 29 -

“Mom, please don’t wear those pink shoes to my recital tonight. You look crazy when you wear those.” Nell was already yelling from the kitchen, digging in to me before I was even vertical. Gee, how could someone so small insure that my day started so badly? That’s Nell for you. “Oh sweetheart, I bought another outfit just for the occasion. You will be so proud of me!” And I lumbered into the kitchen, pulling my hair into a pony tail and checking to make sure there was nothing dried and stuck to my face. The sweetness I try to imbue into our conversation is abruptly soured by her next statement that slides off her tongue like venom from a snake who wears petticoats and cherry lip-gloss. “You buy too many things. That’s why you and dad are always fighting.” Climbing back up into the kitchen from the pit she has thrown me into I retort, “Nell, sweetie, don’t talk to momma like that. Now let’s get you some breakfast and get you on the bus.” Unfolding her arms in retreat, she turns to the door to walk out and discovers the empty tray – the mound of pink and purple confections that should have been piled onto its porcelain plateau are missing, and there’s nothing more than a broken promise sitting in their place – and she’s furious. “Where are my cupcakes? Aaaaaahhh! You forgot again. I told you it was my turn for treats!” And then with a voice of panic she adds, “You’re not going to drop them off are you? Please, just forget about it now. I will just tell Miss Darnell you’re sick again.” Her tirade is actually quite impressive. If Hollywood were ever to come calling, she’d be set for life.

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I know this Miss Darnell type. She’s ugly, short, and stern and she’s never worn pretty clothes so no wonder she’s always frowning. I don’t like her and I can tell she’s making Nell mean, too. “Don’t you want breakfast sweet girl? I bought cinnamon bagels yesterday!” They’re the wrong brand, mom.” If she twirls around any quicker her chin will become dislodged. “Oh!” she shoots back as though she hadn’t pushed a dagger right through my left ventricle, “Don’t forget to wash my recital outfit. And please don’t argue with dad when you’re there, just don’t let him start.” I think I see a little sympathy in her eyes, and I swear I see her motion towards me for a hug. But she’s just reaching for the breakfast bar she has laid out the night before. It’s right next to the homework she asked me to help her with after dinner that I suppose has to be turned in today. Most moms would feel guilty. I was trying to decide if that was me. I’m caught off guard as Garner sneaks up behind me to say goodbye, and I realize he’s dressed a little fancier that usual. I’m guessing it’s because of a girl so I add, “Oh, sweetheart! I love that sweater on you. And I know your friend Angela is fond of it too.” “Thanks, Mom.” And his shrug and rolling eyes tell me I’m right. “I have a soccer practice after school so I won’t be home ‘til 6.” I watch him lumber across the kitchen, carrying all his gear and backpack in one hand and walking sideways under the strain of its weight. As he pushes his wet hair aside and fumbles in his pocket for his keys, he still has the physical prowess to turn on a dime and ask me one last question. “Oh, mom, did you call Evan’s mom to ask about going to the zoo this weekend?”

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It had totally slipped my mind, and as much as I try to hide the surprise in my eyes, I can see disappointment in Garner’s. Those eyes of his suddenly remind me of Oacie, and the way she would look at me when I wasn’t minding her. Garner, though doesn’t shrug, or sigh, or reprimand. He just turns and squeezes my hand with the two fingers that aren’t reinforcing his middle-school load, giving me a glimpse of the heroic figure he might grow into. “Just get some rest today, Mommy. I love you.” As they leave the house I am relieved. Not so much about being alone again but more about the fact that I survived the morning without any reprise of the night before. No one even asked about the noise, or the undone dishes, or the rip in the tablecloth. I must straighten up the house, turn over the cushions to hide the stains, and follow the little trail of dirty sox that Steve leaves behind as though I could never find my way to the bathroom without them. It is vaguely comforting, maddeningly repetitive, and it is my life. And it probably will never change – nothing in my life ever does and that’s exactly the way I planned it; even though I never meant it to happen quite this way.

- 32 -

STEVE I never noticed just how bad this place smells. It’s a mixture of a McDonald’s play area, a store I used to frequent in college, and the odor that lingers through the house after Ray bakes fish. If I thought about it, I wouldn’t put my feet down, or touch my glass. But the whiskey is smooth and the fog I’m slipping into is a welcome respite from the voices, the confusion and the recurring madness my wife suffers from. Maybe going crazy is catchy. Mostly I make my way here after work, long after everyone thinks I’ve forgotten the words I yelled to my wife, and the thoughts I regret thinking. I come here to ease my fears about the future, and with my lips shake the hand of my old friend swimming through sparkling ice cubes; this buddy who drifts down my throat to the music of Dolly Parton and the treble of squeaky stools. Last night was one of the worst fights ever and the more I tried to jump into Ray’s world, the more I saw her retreat. We went round and round for hours while she cried and paced and rocked back and forth with her arms wrapped around her like she was holding in something that would fall out if she straightened up. And then I made the worst mistake of all, I asked her why she won’t tell me about Oacie’s conviction, and why we she won’t share with me what brought her into my world without a family, a past, a penny, or even one friend. That’s when she grabbed her own chest, swirled into a circle and flung herself beyond my voice or my arms. I walked over to bring her a glass of cold water and a heaping dose of regret, but she glared at me like a cat, and snarled, “If you ever touch me...” As I backed off I felt like I was reeling into a vortex. I knew better than to get close to her when she was thinking of Oacie. I knew that the fight was over, too, and maybe even the marriage. That’s when I went to bed, opening the window to try and inhale the comforting dampness of a southern night.

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*** “You had enough, Steve?” Mick always watches me, especially when I go off into a stupor like this, but if I wanted another he’d grab the bottle and pour me a generous round of denial. “She was really doing better for awhile; starting to talk to us, to me, and sharing things like a person with things to say. That’s what I thought anyway. And then I went up into the attic…my God, Mick, it’s like I’m in a dream there’s so much stuff all over the place. It set me off all over again.” “What is she buying now?” He asks, as one bushy eyebrow disappears into his hairline. I think about not answering, but if I don’t talk to Mick it’s like it hasn’t happened. “I don’t know. Every box in there is huge, for God’s sake.” I shift in my chair as I hear a glass break in the background. “I just stood there shocked that it was happening again. She told me she takes her medication; she promises me for God’s sake but I found a full bottle this afternoon behind her shoes. Jeezus, it’s like I’m...like I’m some jerk who has to sneak around my own house to find the truth.” “So she stopped taking her meds?” Now both eyebrows have vanished. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed just how long and stringy his hair really is. “She’s so good at being this demonic Stepford wife and I’m so sick of seeing her cry that I stopped asking long ago. Even the kids avoid her. Nell won’t touch her, and I see Garner trying to stroke her hair or look into her eyes; anything to make contact. She casts them both off like enemies.” I take another swig of Jack and set the glass down a little too hard.

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“I know when I get home tonight it will be like nothing has happened. She will walk up to me and put her hands on me and I will respond just like I always do. And she will assume everything is okay.” “Man, I know you feel like you have to protect her, always have. She’s a delicate little thing and that last bout in the hospital about did you in, buddy.” He’s moving around behind the bar now, looking for olives for the waitress, but I know he hears every word I’m saying. “She thinks we’re all against her.” I continue, knowing that having his face out of sight makes telling the truth easier. “We smile, and she says we’ve got it in for her. I have always known she’s screwed up but I always thought if I loved her enough, she’d be okay.” That last part slipped out; one of many unsolicited emotional outbursts that I’m famous for. It’s not that I have a problem with my feelings, but it seems so sappy to sit here, nursing a glass of ‘woe is me’ and whining to a bartender about my inability to move off the dime with my wife. He looks long and hard at me and I’m afraid he’s going to walk the other way, tired of my complaints. And why wouldn’t he? I imagine every regular comes in with their own name tag and story tacked to their chest, “Hi, I’m George; my problem is I can’t get it up.” “Hey, I’m Cindy; my husband beats the crap out of me.” “Yo, Cal here, I’ve been stealing from my boss for 20 years.” I’m just a part of the parade of losers. “My son is in prison, Steve. Did you know that?” he had barely turned to look at me, and I shifted in my chair so he knew I was listening. “Mick, I…I had no idea you even had a son.” I wasn’t surprised by his admission, but still I could see he was about to share something personal, and I wanted to know it. I felt better then, about being so

- 35 -

honest. That’s what happens when you have secrets, you’re riveted by the skeletons of others. “He’s been there since he was 22; caught during a drug raid. I about killed him when I found out, and then … well my biggest mistake is that I told him we’d make like it never happened. I just couldn’t imagine myself … or I guess couldn’t imagine my son in jail. We’ve pretended for years and now. God, he’s so screwed up that I’m afraid to visit him.” I listened in silence as he cursed himself. His head hung and his eyes looking like they might tear up. Men with tattoos on every inch of their body always shock you when they cry. “I’ve got one piece of advice for you buddy,” he rallied. “Don’t keep your pain inside anymore. It will blow up in your face and explode all over you. Ray needs more help, you need more help. You need to get to the bottom of this whole damn thing. Man, take it from me. You need to find out for yourself why all these ghosts won’t go away.” Ghosts, there, he said it. That’s what I’ve been worried about all along. And the biggest ghost of all was Oacie; bitter, icy, solid, broken Oacie. She has penetrated every day, every emotion, and every word that comes out of Ray’s mouth. Not audibly of course, Ray rarely utters her sister’s name, but she is there. From the moment I first heard about her it sent chills down my spine. A woman in jail seems like such a horrible thing. But Ray’s sister? That was a different thing and it scared me that it might always poison our lives. When my children were born, I stared into their pure faces, I smelled their hair, examined their fingernails, listened to their cooing; all to see whether or not the demons had been passed on to them. When they cried, I leapt up at night to hold them, rocking back and forth with one of them in my arms, talking to them as though they could reach into the stars and answer all my questions. I wanted to

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float away with them to some ethereal place where people held you without extracting all of your strength and listened to you without waiting for you to finish so they could retort with some kind of compliment laden, pre-scripted nonsense about themselves. When I heard a waitress yell at an obnoxious man about his tab, my attention snapped back into place. I suddenly remembered this isn’t the kind of place you find answers; it’s a place you hide from your problems. These walls are covered with memories that can’t be left behind. Every glow from the lights, every wail from all the songs, every glass stacked against the mirror is laughing at the people huddled inside, slowly and insidiously whispering back that they’re worthless, and that they’ll never escape. The last sip didn’t taste as good as it should so I knew I needed to go. I placed the $20 down and turned to walk out. Mick winked at me and slowly added, “Think about it, pal.” I nodded without turning. He understood why. As I walked home that night I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of the stores lining Walker Avenue. The dirt in the windows cast an ugly light on my otherwise lean reflection. Pulling my hand above my head I smoothed down the one curl that always wrapped over my freckled forehead. My red hair made me look younger than I was, and the fact that I was never going to be muscular made me appear almost emaciated in the golden, milky light. I thought about the time I first met Ray and how stunned I was by her wide mouth, golden hair and soft, smooth, outstretched arms. Her legs looked like they could carry her on air and maybe me, too, and when she pushed away my red curl; I grabbed her and kissed her bravely for a long, long time. From then on we were inseparable. We seemed to strike this bond of silence where we both jumped in without oxygen. She clung to my need to make it all better; her fragility making me come back for more. I too had lost my mother

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when I was young, and that kind of hole in your soul is unimaginable, so I surmised I had something in common with Ray and we would grow through it. All during Veterinary school I worked to repair the pain in animals, instead of myself. Then I started investing, and made some good friends, and made my way through Vet School in Georgia with honors. After graduating it seemed that finding a wife was the next logical step. It’s not that I needed someone to do my laundry, but I wanted to feel whole, and that I had arrived. I wanted the silky feeling of a woman beside me in bed, the smell of stew in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon after playing golf. And I wanted children. It seemed they had been residing in me long before now. The best version of me brought to life by the merging of two bodies that have dedicated themselves to procreation. I know that sounds rather pious and I’m certainly not a religious man. Bar Mitvah’ed or not, I still feel that the life you choose is your own. It’s just that the feeling that fatherhood will soothe something deep inside me was always there. Of course, when you find the woman of your dreams, it catches you off guard. I was buying beer at an upscale grocery store, when I first saw. She was being reprimanding by a patron in front of a dress store and she seemed completely overwhelmed by the situation as though there was part of her ready to run and part ready to fight back. Whatever it was it caught my attention because I found the one animal that cried the loudest, with the biggest thorn, and the most awful secrets. It was there that she first called to me, and covered my mouth, all at the same time. I couldn’t get her out of my head so I made her a part of my life. And now, that life was sucking everything out of me. *** By the time I got home, dinner was in the oven, but on the table was a note, ornately adorned with swirls and hearts, written in the calm, exceptional handwriting of my wife. “Darling, we missed you! Your favorite is in the oven. Your other favorite is in bed. You choose which one you want first!”

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Dammit. I turned off the oven and walked up the stairs. The food smelled good but I needed to be close. I needed to see her eyes and get all the clues I could before I left in the morning for the long trip north to the penitentiary, to learn the secrets that I had to know. I had decided while walking home that it was time to figure this all out. Ray wasn’t going to get any better until I took all these loose ends and wove them carefully together, once and for all. There was only one thing to do, and I would have to do it. “Are you feeling better, Ray?” I said, slipping out of my clothes and surprised she wasn’t all over me for coming home late and very drunk. “Of course, sweetie, I’m fine.” She said, without ever missing a beat. Her nighttime ritual was a sight to behold. I tried to count once how many kinds of elixirs were massaged into her face losing count after six. I knew if I watched her any longer I’d lose my nerve and we’d slip into our usual routine. “Does that stuff really make a difference, Ray? I mean just how much of that is science and how much is you convincing yourself it works?” “Don’t be silly. The infomercial says they proved that it helps skin retain moisture and preserve collagen resulting in a thinner, more taut face.” “More taut? That’s what they said?” I chided. “You’re always teasing me, but you never complain. Why don’t you come over here and help me with the rest of the lotion so I can show you what I’m talking about?” It was a classic ‘Ray’ move, shift the conversation from reality to foreplay and sweep it all under the rug until tomorrow. Who was I kidding? It worked on me every time.

- 39 -

I started carefully at her feet, caressing each toe, rubbing the palms of my hands around her delicate ankles, tracing the slender line from heel to calf. By the time I reached her knees, I was doing more than rubbing. Her legs opened easily and I slipped into the trance that has kept me under her spell for all these years. Working our way to the bed I shortened the journey by scooping her up into my arms, amazed at her lightness and bending my neck desperately to continue to keep our mouths connected as we fell onto the sheets. But the bed was already prepped for our encounter. Extra pillows were stacked on the side up against the headboard, and two candles filled the room with the smell of vanilla and anise. One of her best scarves cradled the lamp shade casting a golden glow. Lovemaking was always like this, intense, detached yet wildly passionate. Catlike in her gestures, she took her nightgown off in one single move and I could see her breasts, neck and waistline glowing with perspiration and eagerness. As I moved over her, grabbing her fingers so we could stretch out our arms, I was surprised by my lack of control. Too much thinking or too much Jack; one of them was throwing me off. “I’d do anything for you Steve. Everything in my life is for you.” She murmured softly. And although that would be an aphrodisiac for any man, I was still wired for honesty and it stole a bit of my excitement in spite of her tightness and warmth. “But I don’t want you to do everything for me. I want you to have a life of your own.” I said, almost breaking the spell that kept us both in sync. “Sssshhhhhh, quiet, baby.” She continued to purr. “This is my life. You know that. I didn’t mean to make everyone upset last night; I just wanted everything to be perfect.”

- 40 -

Her rationalization although transparent, was a sharp departure from her usually closed mouth and open legs, giving me the permission I needed to say what the whiskey demanded I share. “There’s more to life than trinkets and PTA meetings, honey.” But she was already using her mouth to trace thin circles around my fingers, which made it hard to say what I needed, but not impossible. “We can’t keep fighting like this. Things, well, things have to...” and I hesitated because after all, one wrong word and she would fall apart. What was I, an idiot? She wasn’t listening at all. Her next statement insured I was right. “Everything will be better tomorrow, sweetie. It always is.” And I grabbed her and continued with our ritual. She was beautiful, striking and intelligent and oh, so screwed up. And I loved her too much to separate it all out. Together it made Ray and that combination made us. It was then I made up my mind for sure that tomorrow, tomorrow everything was going to change.

- 41 -

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